


Wise Man

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Affection, Christmas Fluff, Cooking Lessons, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Max DeBryn is Unapologetically Lovely, Max teaches Morse vital culinary skills, Oblivious Endeavour Morse, and really very patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28293498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Does it really take all of this to make a Christmas cake?’
Relationships: Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Wise Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written and published in all the flurry of Christmas Eve, between dinner, attending the 9pm Eucharist and preparing the vegetables for tomorrow. Humour me, it's unbeta'ed and as usual, inspired by a Housman poem. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

* * *

‘Does it really take all of this to make a Christmas cake?’ Morse asks; Max glances around from where he’s removing the thing itself from the fridge, kept safely in its tin where he’s been plying it with brandy for the past fortnight. Morse has put his crossword aside to peruse his recipe book – originally Max’s mother’s, passed onto him accordingly. It’s old and worn, the string at the spine cracked through, adorned with the odd, random shape of a pencilled daisy here and there, courtesy of his niece Margaret, but it’s his old faithful, with a special place on his shelf along with his Pope and his Housman.

‘It does,’ he eyes Morse, who’s blinking down at the recipe with the same, seemingly intolerable bewilderment that comes with looking upon a particularly random crime-scene, before looking up at Max with a strange, wrinkled expression, putting the doctor in mind of a sheet that needs to be ironed out. 

‘Seems a bit decadent,’ he comments and Max huffs and takes the book out of his hands. It makes sense, he considers, that Morse would choose that to comment on; the man is a shameless skinflint, it’s been easy enough to tell over the years, evading rounds at the pub and buying a house that used to be a drug’s den because nobody else would have it. He cranes his head to stare past Max at the tin containing the apparently offending cake, as though it’s a thieving suspect that he really wants to review.

‘You’ve been to the Thursdays’ house, I presume,’ Max comments icily – with more ice than he intended, in fact. ‘Surely you’ve seen Mrs Thursday going through the process.’ He bites his tongue just in time, stop himself going further back, to Morse’s childhood, no less; there’s a line there and one that he has no intent of crossing. Won’t do to make the poor fellow upset.

‘Well, I…’ Morse taps the table as Max gets out the food-mixer, looking as though he’s considering if for the very first time. ‘Yes, I – I suppose I must have. Only…’ He leans on the table for a moment, and Max gives him a moment to process his thoughts as he arranges the eggs and the sugar. ‘I just…I didn’t know, I suppose.’

All that knowledge in the man’s mind and he doesn’t know such a simple fact. Well, if it’s not relevant to a case, Max supposes it’s not really important to Morse. ‘Well, now you do,’ he tells the sergeant, ‘useful information for the future, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I suppose,’ Morse chortles softly and he sits and watches, taking in every step with a particular kind of care and attention, hovering close as Max separates the eggs and measures out the icing-sugar. Honestly, with how often he’s been here over the past few days, graduating from his uniform to a casual shirt and trousers, Max can’t help but feel as though he’s keeping the man hostage somehow, even though he’s perfectly free to come and go as he pleases; he’s there in the kitchen in the morning, leaning against the counter gulping down coffee, he’s reading the newspaper or a book in the afternoons in the lounge, occasionally perusing Max’s family photos with close attention and seeming satisfied by what he finds; he’s even helped in the garden of an afternoon, wrapped up in one of Max’s jumpers and using a spare pair of gloves. He never seems to hover far from Max’s side, in fact; certainly not for too long. Max sometimes feels as though he’s hosting a handsome, young, wounded winter-sprite under his roof – is oddly gratified that his cottage, of all places, has apparently Morse’s safe space.

‘Have you already made the marzipan?’ he asks at random, consulting the recipe book and honestly, if it wasn’t such an innocent question and if it didn’t go against his Hippocratic Oath, Max would clout him around the head with a tea-towel.

‘If you recall, you were in fact here.’ Morse had wondered into the kitchen yesterday afternoon, vaguely interested at Max kneading out the hard, sweet square on his counter and after being invited to have a turn, had offered one or two haphazard attempts at kneading himself before quietly retreating to read the newspaper.

‘Oh,’ Morse drops his gaze. ‘I thought that was…I thought you were making bread,’ he confesses, looking at the counter and Max chuckles; that explains why Morse was looking around this morning, a polite slant to his eyes, on his quest for toast.

‘You’ve honestly never seen this being done?’ he asks, gently incredulous; Morse instantly withdraws, picking up his crossword and staring hard at the page.

‘Not really. Not for a long time.’ There’s a tight line to his mouth, bare discernible and Max wonders. A heavy silence takes over Max’s kitchen, heightened somehow by the choir’s rendition of Silent Night on the radio (oh, the irony) before Morse seems to admit defeat and rubs his face, watching Max whisk the egg whites and sugar together. ‘What will you do with the yolks?’ he asks after a beat, in some clear attempt at normality.

‘Eggnog,’ Max replies promptly; glancing at him, and then down at the mixture, Max gestures to the icing sugar left on the scales. ‘Be a good chap and spoon some more of that in for me, would you?’

Morse starts, visibly; seems to take a moment to process Max’s full request, looking between him and the scales before doing as he’s told, taking the spare tablespoon by his elbow and carrying out a one-man sugar retrieval operation, hand tellingly careful.

‘Thankyou,’ Max commends and they work together, the icing becoming satisfyingly stiff and sticky. ‘Now fetch me a lemon, if you please.’

Morse obeys, even helpfully cuts the lemon in half and squeezes the lemon juice in himself, startling when a couple of the pips fall in as well and with a mutter of ‘Sorry,’ rattles around for a spoon to dig them out. ‘Sorry,’ he says again.

‘No matter,’ Max eyes him curiously. ‘Hazards of the profession,’ he adds; wonders if this is a staple of Morse’s late childhood flitting through; the echoes of one who wasn’t so much required in the kitchen as he was uninvited. With that in mind, he digs out a small teaspoon-full, and holds it up to Morse. ‘Taste, please.’

Morse’s tongue flicks out as his hand takes the teaspoon; takes a tentative lick under Max’s eye; his eyes go wide, icing stuck to his tongue and Max feels that same spark in his stomach that never gets old whenever anyone tastes one of his culinary delights.

‘S’really nice,’ Morse licks the spoon clean, a gratifying, reassuring sight in itself and Max busies himself with lifting the cake out of its tin, the rich, brandy-laden, fruity sponge beneath ready with the layer of marzipan surrounding it.

‘Brushed with warmed apricot jam,’ he explains with a look at Morse’s face, the sergeant wiping his mouth of icing. ‘Put the marzipan on, brush it with jam, let it stand for a day.’

‘And this is _after_ you baked the cake three weeks ago and then spent ages just feeding it alcohol?’ Morse asks, lowering his sleeve and licking his lips, his entire tone suggesting that he regards that a waste of good drink.

‘There’s still some left, don’t worry,’ Max teases lightly and gets a writhing look in return. ‘In that cupboard, actually,’ he gestures over Morse’s shoulder. ‘If you would. And in that drawer,’ he points, ‘you’ll find some figures for the cake.’

‘You don’t make them?’ Morse asks over his shoulder, looking bemused even as he does as he’s told.

‘Good heavens, no, old fellow. I _do_ have a job to be getting on with.’

He’s rewarded with a chuckle for that, a murmur of ‘Suppose’ as Morse finds the brandy with suspicious quickness and a couple of glasses; brings them back and then homes in on the drawer Max pointed out, opening it with a telling, curious slowness to peek inside. Max watches him take out the products one by one, listing them aloud like accessories to a crime.

‘A plastic, gold sprig of holly – I’ve seen these at Richardson’s– a Father Christmas and a snowman – a polar bear on skies…?’

‘My niece,’ Max recalls, smiling fondly.

‘Another gold sprig of holly – Thunderbird Four?’ he glances up at Max, holding up the tiny, yellow submarine.

‘…Cereal packet,’ Max explains. ‘And rather a favourite,’ he adds, suddenly nostalgic. 

‘And a Merry Christmas sign,’ Morse manages, clearly and rather cleverly choosing not to comment on that, digging the last prop out and lays them all out before Max, sheepish, like a poor king making his offerings.

‘Excellent,’ Max says stoutly, giving the peaking icing one last stir. ‘Run them under the tap if you would, and then you can help me with this.’

‘Yes, Doctor,’ the sergeant murmurs, with just a hint of a smirk and does as he’s bid, even dries them off with kitchen roll.

‘Right,’ Max nods as he brings the little Christmas party back to the table. ‘Draw up your sleeves, if you would. I need a strong, young man to hold the bowl.’

Morse snorts at that as, directed by Max, he takes the bowl with the care of a woman holding her first-born; of Mary clutching her divine son to her in that stable, Max considers, not without humour. ‘You’re not that much older than me, Max, surely,’ he offers, holding the bowl at an angle over the cake as directed.

‘Ah, when I was one and twenty,’ Max comments loftily, silently pleased at the effort of protest, raising his voice to be heard as he scoops the icing onto the cake’s marzipan surface.

‘And I know I couldn’t do what you do,’ Morse adds, quite serious as Max’s spoon scrapes around the edges of the bowl; he lifts it up again, watching Max spread the icing around the cake. ‘What you do…it’s…’ He peters off, clearly trying to find a nice way of describing a practise he knows is necessary, but which he still can’t stand. Max attempts to take the sting out of it, manoeuvring ice to the edges of the cake and filling in the sides.

‘Goodness, Morse, we really are feeling the Christmas spirit today. Tip the bowl again, old fellow.’

‘Important,’ Morse rolls his eyes good-naturedly but does as he’s told; allowing Max to reach the rest of the icing. ‘What you do. It’s important. And – well, I couldn’t do it, I know that much.’ He shrugs, lifting up the memory of his first autopsy, his first collapse in Max’s morgue – _not_ to be the last, as it turned out – but he’s improved.

‘You do well, Morse.’ Max scrapes his spoon around the edges of the bowl, getting out the last of the icing; gets an embarrassed-sounding chuff for his efforts and they’re both quiet as Max spreads the rest of the icing around the cake, making sure all the corners are covered.

‘What will you do?’ he asks after a beat. ‘This Christmas? Have you any plans?’

Morse blinks, as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to him and really, Max wonders if he’s ever seen Morse in a festive mood; the man always seems to be working over the holiday, always seems to be doing something practical as opposed to doing anything at all to acknowledge the season. The only time the fellow disappeared from Oxford was wisely staggering out with a gunshot wound to reach his father, and the Christmas after that – prison, Max remembers with a jolt. Morse spent the winter in prison.

‘Only you’re welcome to come here,’ he adds, covering the thought fast. ‘If you wish.’

‘Oh, erm…’ Morse looks caught out; blinking wide eyes at him. ‘I’m…not sure. I don’t really know…Hm.’ He looks contemplative at the prospect; caught, tapping the table with an index finger.

‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ he says, and Max believes him; namely, he believes that Morse deliberately tries not to think about this time of year; places an extra importance on his work, gains extra money as the man on duty Christmas day. ‘I…erm. Maybe. Sorry,’ he shakes himself a little. ‘Do you mind if we, er – don’t talk about that, for a minute?’ he asks and he grimaces immediately after saying it, as though conscious of his own rudeness. ‘It’s not that I don’t,’ He breaks off with an embarrassed smile, looking infuriated – but more with himself than anything else.

‘Of course, old fellow,’ Max offers at once, taking pity. ‘Only consider it, if you will. There’s always a place open for you at the table, Morse. At _any_ time of the day.’

Morse nods, something in his face seeming reassured and Max reconsiders the lingering, attentive gazes Morse has given of the photographs of his sisters, his niece, all beaming out from their frames at him. ‘Thankyou,’ he murmurs and then visibly pulls himself together; picks up the snowman. ‘So. These to go on, now?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Max agrees. ‘Just one more thing – get me a fork, if you would.’ Morse does as he’s told, and watches as Max attacks the newly-iced cake with the back of it, the spokes forming sticking-up shapes, in the form of a proper snow-scene.

‘There we are,’ He turns it on its plate, filled with that same pride that comes every year. ‘Now. Snowman, if you please. Where do you think he should go?’

Together, they construct a festive scene atop the cake; Morse is trusted with putting the Merry Christmas sign in the centre, sticking his tongue out, his careful, pale fingers, the red of his jumper brushing against the icing and they stick the snowman, the Father Christmas figurine and the mini-tree around it (Thunderbird Four is placed discreetly on the windowsill by the sink). They both take a sprig of holly and place it in either side, with a satisfying spear of ice as it sinks into the cake and then Morse holds the fridge door open while Max pops the whole thing onto a shelf to set.

‘Well,’ Morse comments, as they close the fridge and Max stands back, mopping his hands. ‘Well done.’

‘And you,’ Max turns to him, nods at the brandy. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thankyou,’ Morse murmurs, taking the top off the bottle with no further bidding and pouring them both a measure. They clink glasses softly and drink for a minute, Morse’s eyes flitting to Max’s clock as he takes a sip. He seems to be considering something over his glass and Max adjusts his glasses.

‘Everything alright, old fellow?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Morse contemplates his half-full brandy glass. ‘Only…I was thinking…do you mind if I use your phone?’ he asks, with a telling tentativeness. ‘Only…I thought I should call my sister.’ He casts his eyes over the remaining clutter of ingredients on the work-table, something passing over his face.

‘Of course,’ Max blinks, moved at the prospect. ‘You can do that now, if you like.’

‘Can I?’ Morse hesitates, brandy halfway to his lips. ‘You don’t need my help clearing up?’

‘I’ll be fine, off you go.’

‘Thanks.’ Morse drains his drink. ‘Thankyou.’ He puts the glass down, disappears out into the hallway; Max closes the door quietly after him to grant him a little privacy. As he runs the tap and fills the sink with fairy liquid, dumps the cutlery inside, he hears the high drag of the phone-dial, an almost suspenseful pause and then Morse’s voice, unexpectedly high, ‘Hello, Joycie? Yeah, it’s me…’

Max hums, turns the radio volume up ever so slightly with a non-soapy hand and reaches for the scrubbing brush.

*


End file.
